


Sharp corners

by florette



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florette/pseuds/florette
Summary: A collection of moments within a lifetime.





	Sharp corners

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Part One of Alphabet fic - A through to M.
> 
> Most of these little snippets are written from Mickey's POV and a few are from Ian's.
> 
> Un-beta-ed. All the mistakes are my own.
> 
> No copyright infringement is intended.

**Altered.**

Every experience we have changes us, even if only in the smallest, imperceptible way. But add up enough of these tiny moments and the change can be palpable. For Ian the changes that Mickey brings with him, when he crash-lands into Ian’s life are slow and gradual. First comes the realisation that he does not want Kash anymore. In fact compared to the want he feels for Mickey, he is starting to doubt that he ever truly wanted Kash in the first place, or if it was all about convenience and availability. The longing for Mickey to acknowledge him, to acknowledge _them_ , to acknowledge his own feelings toward Ian comes later.

(Jimmy’s dad was just a bit of fun, a distraction. It never meant anything.)

The thought that keeps coming to Ian is whether his feelings for Mickey (which are like wildfire – sweeping up everything in their wake. Both beautiful and terrifying all at once.) are what jumpstarted the biggest and the most traumatic change he ever had to go through.

_Can love literally drive you crazy?_ If things were different with Mickey, would his bipolar genes have stayed dormant? And if the answer is yes, would he wish for things to be different?

**Brand.**

Mickey has a lot of down time in Mexico. He has time to drink, to smoke, to sleep, to tan, to punch the living daylights out of some stupid fuck in a local dive bar in Cancun, who looks at him the wrong way. And he has plenty of time to fuck. And he does. He has never felt more free to be himself than here. He picks up all kinds of men – tall, short, young, old, skinny, built, blond, dark haired.  Ones that are here on vocation and locals who do not speak a lick of English. He even goes out of his way to find a redheaded tourist from Ireland. Just to prove a point.

And it’s good. It’s fun. He has a grand old time. He has bruises in the shape of fingers on his hips and teeth marks on his shoulders to show for it. He even gets a semi-boyfriend for a while, who brings him cups of freshly brewed coffee to bed and teaches him some very nifty tricks with a throwing knife.

So it is good, but it is simply not what Mickey wants. Every time he closes his eyes against the bright Mexican sun, Ian’s face appears on the back of his eyelids like an imprint. He thought it would go away after a while, but then again Mickey has never been particularly lucky. It’s like Ian has been branded somewhere deep inside of Mickey and he has no idea if there is any way to burn him out. Or if he even wants to.

**Comfort.**

For someone, whose hands can inflict so much pain, Mickey can be very gentle, when he wants to be. In many ways Mickey is a walking-talking-breathing dichotomy. Ian sits of the bottom bunk in their cell and waits patiently as Mickey, who is kneeling in between his thighs, slowly and carefully cleans up his broken, bloodied knuckles.

“Defending my honour, huh?” Mickey’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, but there is a small smile tugging at his lips.

Ian has zero regrets about punching that asshole, who thought that since Mickey takes it up the ass from Ian, he is now fair game. Not that Mickey needs Ian to defend his anything. In fact the guy probably got off easy since it was Ian doing the punching.

_Still._

Ian lifts his right hand and swipes his thumb over Mickey’s bottom lip, “And if I was, what’s it worth to you?”

“I guess I can show some appreciation,” Mickey is looking up now and his hands have moved from Ian’s to settle on his thighs.

“Only since you’re already down there,” says Ian, smiling as he leans back on his elbows and very demonstratively pushes his crotch into Mickey’s face.

Mickey laughs, “Asshole”, but it comes out warm and affectionate. He wastes no time pushing Ian’s legs further apart and getting Ian’s cock out before lowering his head to take Ian into his mouth.

The sight of Mickey’s dark head bobbing up and down on Ian’s dick is one that Ian will never get tired of. The feeling of Mickey running the palms of his hands up and down Ian’s thighs is a soothing counterpoint to the suction he is applying to Ian’s cock. Mickey runs the flat of his tongue up the underside of Ian’s cock before pulling off completely only to press the tip of his tongue right into the slit. It makes Ian do a full body twitch and groan out loud before Mickey takes him back in and doubles up the pace.

Mickey has never been known for his patience and sex is no different. From there it does not take long for Ian to start doing shallow thrusts up and Mickey having to hold his hips down or risk choking on Ian’s dick. When Ian comes, Mickey is prepared and he keeps as much of the come as he can in his closed mouth, but some still manages to leak out of the corner of his mouth.

As Mickey is about to get up and go spit the come into the toilet bowl, Ian lifts his bruised hand and smears the leaking come all over Mickey’s mouth before roughly pulling Mickey up and kissing him right on the mouth, come and all.

Mickey’s “Fuck, Gallagher, you’re disgusting!” is drowned out by Ian’s laughter.

**Darkness.**

Mickey asks Ian once what the depressive part of bipolar is like and Ian has no good answer at the ready. The best way he has of describing it is one word – _darkness._ Gripping, stretching, dragging him down, all-encompassing. It takes over his brain and his body and leaves him with no will of his own. He feels turned inside-out by it. Every. Fucking. Time.

Ian keeps hoping that he will get used to it. That the next time will be easier. But it isn’t. And he knows that what helps is also what he hates the most – taking his meds, keeping to a regular schedule, checking in with his psychiatrist.

(Also, Mickey helps. By just being there. Even if only a little.)

**Exposed.**

Mickey is not used to asking for things. He is not used to saying please. He is definitely not used to begging. What he is used to is taking. Growing up in the Milkovich household he had to learn quickly to grab what he needed for himself otherwise he would starve.

So asking Ian – _begging_ Ian – to go with him to Mexico is literally one of the hardest things he has ever had to do. And when Ian says that he can’t, that this kind of life isn’t him anymore? Well, the intellectual, reasonable part of Mickey acknowledges and respects this decision. Wishes Ian the best. Always only the best for Ian, which certainly does not include Mickey.

But the illogical part of Mickey? The feeling part? His _heart_? That part breaks a little, shutters into a million tiny splinters, when Mickey has to get into the car and drive away alone.

**First.**

Mickey has not told Ian this, but the first time he notices Ian is way before the whole Kash and Grab robbing fiasco. And despite of what he tells people, it’s not Ian’s red hair or massive dick that draws him in. (Well, okay, it’s a little bit about his massive dick.)

He first notices Ian at the front of their high school. Ian is barely thirteen years old then. Mickey is standing in the school yard, smoking and waiting for Mandy to emerge. That’s when he spots Ian, who is coming out of the school doors with Lip behind him. They are play fighting and laughing and Lip manages to get Ian in a headlock. Ian is giggling and twisting until he pulls out of Lip’s hold and dances backwards away from Lip.

There is just something about Ian in that moment that has Mickey rooted to the ground. Ian is carefree, joyous, mercurial. All Mickey wants in that second is a chance to be close to that. To touch, to feel, to know. Mickey hasn’t even made full sense of his sexuality yet at this point, but the longing is there. The moment is broken by Mandy appearing at his side and punching him hard in the kidneys.  Mickey retaliates by giving her a nipple twist, tells her that he’ll be fucked if he ever waits for her again and they start the walk back to their house.

There is a pulling ache deep in his gut as he watches Ian and Lip walking ahead of them, but Mickey chalks it up to indigestion.

**Give (in).**

The first thing that Ian asks Mickey – after they have finished that first frantic fucking and as they are lying side by side on the narrow prison bunk trying to catch their breath – is ‘ _why_?’ Mickey knows exactly what Ian is asking, but Mickey grew up in the South Side ghetto and he is hardly known for sprouting sentimental niceties. What Ian is asking is why is Mickey here in an Illinois prison rather than laying on a Mexican beach somewhere with a bottle of tequila in his hand and a tanned, muscled Latino guy at his side? Why is he here? Why now?

The answer is so simple, it’s laughable. Or at least it would be, if the stakes were not so high.

So he does what he does best – he jokes and plays dumb.

**Holiday.**

The first holiday Ian and Mickey take together is in Mexico (and no, the irony is not lost on either of them). It’s a matter of timing, distance and funds. It also feels a little bit like a do-over, which few people get the chance of, so it’s impossible to pass up.

They avoid the high traffic, touristy spots and end up in a small coastal town about 30 minutes outside of Acapulco. They spend much of their time swimming in a local cenote, drinking cheap local beer and laying about on the beach. Ian falls asleep and ends up with horrible sunburn, which Mickey finds endlessly hilarious. They fuck on the large bed in their room with the window wide open and the breeze coming from the water cooling the sweat on their skin.

(It’s so much more than just a do-over – it’s a second chance.)

**It.**

“You’re it for me.”

“Hmm?” Ian turns his head toward the voice, blinking sleepily.

“You’re it for me, Gallagher.” Mickey is sitting up in bed propped up by his pillow and the headboard. The sheets and blankets have pooled around his waist leaving his chest exposed. He is looking down at Ian and there is a soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

They have just entered their mid-thirties and it’s a slow Sunday morning, which Ian is planning to spend lazing about in bed. The years have not been easy for them – they have broken up and come back together more times than either of them cares to think about. They have cut themselves on each other’s sharp edges and have made each other bleed again and again. They know all the sore spots there is to know. They know exactly which buttons to push to inflict maximum damage. And yet here they are.

Ian yawns and pops one eye open, “You woke me up just to tell me that?”

He stretches and rolls over, so that he has one arm slung across Mickey’s hips. He presses a closed-mouth kiss to Mickey’s ribs, right under his left nipple, right over his heart.

“ _Obviously_ , dickhead. Now go back to sleep.”

**Jealousy.**

Secretly Ian loves the fact that Mickey has a jealously streak a mile long. He loves it for so many reasons. Even back when they were stupid, scared teenagers and had no way of defining what they are to each other, Mickey could always be relied on to blow a gasket at the sheer idea of Ian fucking another guy. Back then it was the only way Mickey could allow that shitstorm of emotions that brewed inside of him to escape into the world. Sanctioned emotions. Sanctioned violence.

Nowadays things are different. Mickey has so many different ways of showing his feelings for Ian which do not include punching or kicking some poor schmuck when he is already down. Mickey will never be someone who feels comfortable with words, but he has said “I love you” so many times to Ian that it now comes naturally, _easily_ , like breathing air.

So Ian has no real reason to want Mickey to get jealous. Except that sometimes he does.

Ian sits at the counter of their favourite after work bar, pulling on his second beer. It’s 6pm on a Friday afternoon and Ian does not expect Mickey to show up for at least another half an hour. He turns around on his bar stool and scans the crowd. His eyes land on a dark-haired guy in his early twenties and hold. The guy is muscular without being ridiculous, he has a pretty face without looking girly and his eyes have a playful sparkle in them, when they meet Ian’s. _Fan-fucking-tastic_.

By the time Mickey rocks up at the bar, Ian is on his forth beer and the guy has long since moved to sit next to Ian at the bar counter. Their heads are close together and Mickey can see the guy eyeing the exposed line of Ian’s throat as he leans his head back to take a large swallow of his beer. It’s humid inside the bar and Mickey can see a droplet of sweat make its way down Ian’s neck and disappear into the collar of his T-shirt. So can the guy, if the way he puts his hand on Ian’s knee and leans forward toward Ian’s neck is any indication.

“Put that mouth anywhere near his fucking neck and they’ll be scraping you off the floor for a good long time.”

Mickey’s voice is low and measured, the threat of violence unmistakable. The guy takes one good look at Mickey and his tattooed knuckles and slides off the bar stool to quickly melt away into the crowd.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian sits there, smirking, relaxed, _pleased_. “You’re late. I was getting bored.”

Mickey could protest this – their relationship has been many things, but never boring – but he doesn’t. (It’s a game they often play, but it’s still a little bit cruel since as much as Mickey knows that’s all it is – a _game_ – it still plays into his worries and insecurities.)

Mickey does not say a word. He just jerks his head toward the back of bar and turns away from Ian, knowing the exact moment, when Ian gets up and follows him. They end up cramped tightly together in one of the dirty bathroom stalls of the bar with Mickey’s pants around his knees and Ian almost dry-fucking him with only a bit of spit to help. But Mickey loves it, loves the stretch, loves the edge of pain, loves Ian’s harsh grunts in his ear, loves every second of it.

It wouldn’t be them, if there wasn’t a sliver of pain to go with it.

**Keep.**

Mickey is not a sentimental man. He has never had the luxury to be one. It’s also not in his personality. He does not collect keepsakes that remind him of important moments in his life, does not keep mementos of significant people. If someone was to find such things, it could be used as ammunition against him and he simply can’t afford that.

What he keeps instead are memories. Memories of every meaningful event in his life. He hoards them and guards them tirelessly, possessively, like the dragons guarded their treasure in the stories that his mum used to read to him when he was little. Memories are the one thing that no one can take away from him.

**Loyalty.**

The thing about Mickey is this – he is fiercely loyal. He does not give his trust, love or devotion easily, but once he decides to give it to you, there really isn’t anything you can do to lose it. So even from the sun-drenched, Tequila filled haze of Mexico, Mickey keeps an eye and an ear on Ian.

He grabs at scraps of information like a starved dog. Facebook, Instagram. Anything and everything he can get his hands on that will give him a glimpse of Ian’s life. It’s not much, but it has to be enough. And then comes Gay Jesus. It would be funny if it wasn’t so worrying. Ian is obviously off his meds, but it’s more than that. Ian has always had a certain charm, a certain pull and Mickey has never been able to resist it. It must be true for others as well, getting pulled into Ian’s orbit. But we all know what happens to those, who fly too close to the sun, don’t we.

Mickey watches the whole Gay Jesus disaster unfold and is hardly surprised, when it ends in jail time for Ian. Unhappy – yes, surprised – no. Mickey has turned his life upside for Ian more times than he cares to think about. So what’s one more time? Mickey has always been reactive. Act now, think never. If Mickey had life mottos that would definitely be one of them. So he does not really think about the long-term consequences of giving himself up. Doesn’t think about having to serve out his entire sentence, which is a hell of a lot longer than Ian’s. Doesn’t think about what life will be like in prison or after it.

All he thinks about is Ian. _Ian Ian Ian._ What wouldn’t Mickey do for Ian?

**Molotov cocktail.**

It makes a twisted kind of sense – that as soon as Ian would fuck up his life in a truly spectacular way, he’d turn around and there would be Mickey. Standing. Smirking. _God_ , but that _smirk_. Ian has always had a thing for Mickey’s mouth.

It’s also funny, in a fucked up kind of way, how quickly they end up falling into old patterns. It’s almost like there are no years, no thousands of miles and no other lives separating them. It’s comforting to know that they can pick things up right where they left them off. Body memory.

The two of them have always been volatile together. Fireworks and explosions. Molotov cocktail.

Once their eyes lock across that tiny prison cell, it’s like they are back in their teenage bodies. They don’t even manage to get their ugly orange prison issue jumpsuits off. It’s a quick and frantic dry hump that leaves them both breathless and with come drying uncomfortable on their skin.

As Ian lies on his side next to Mickey on the narrow prison bunk with his hand resting on top of Mickey’s chest, right over his heart, Ian curls his fingers as if trying to dig his nails in, rip through the skin, muscle and sinew and get to that battered heart. (As if he does not already hold it in his hands. As if it’s not already his to crush at whim.)


End file.
